Twelve Days of Christmas
by wrestlefan4
Summary: A collection of xmas OSTS. Piper, Flair, Cowboy Bob, Dusty Rhodes, Bret Hart, HBK, Davey Boy Smith, Jim Neidhart, Jericho, Edge, Christian, HHH, Hardys, Owen Hart, Taker, APA, Raven, Sandman, Jarrett, Randy Orton, Miz, Morrison, Marty Jannetty.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Yes I realize it's Christmas Eve…but I'm getting this project finished. There will be 12 short oneshots, hence the title 'Twelve Days of Christmas'. Each oneshot will take place in a different time period, w/different wrestlers from said periods from 1984-current. Most of these will be slash pairings, a couple as is this first one, are just basically friendship. There might be a some little slashy hints, but nothing big. I doubt there will be any sexins goin on. These are for Christmas, mostly cute or funny, so please enjoy and feel free to comment. Here's the first. :) I would like to have these all up by tomorrow night, but I do have to work tomorrow, so they might not all get done by tomorrow but they WILL be done. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all. P.S. To anyone reading Coldest End, I have not forgotten. The next ch is in the works._

_Includes: Roddy Piper, Cowboy 'Ace' Bob Orton, and Dusty Rhodes.  
_

**Santa Boogie - 1984**

Bob rubbed at the bridge of his nose as Roddy pulled him through the hotel lobby. He loved the guy—he really, really did, but sometimes the loudness just became overwhelming. It was probably due in part to an ear injury Rod had sustained in a brutal match against Greg Valentine, but Bob figured that Roddy would still be loud, hearing loss or not. Despite the occasional annoyance of it, it was just one of the many things that made Roddy special. If he wasn't boisterous, he wouldn't be right. Bob was just tired, and the Christmas holiday was approaching, and he was more than ready to fly home and spend some quiet, quality time with his wife and young son Randy in front of their fireplace. The though of curling up with his wife and boy made his lips curve into a small, pleased smile.

"Aw, lookit Acey, ain't they cute?" Roddy tugged at Bob's sleeve, and pointed to a flock of children gathered around a Christmas beautiful Christmas tree that was set up in the hotel lobby. Bob's smile grew.

"Sure are Rod. Makes me pine away for my family even more. I told Elaine not to put the star up top the tree yet, I wanted to wait til I got home, so I can put Randy up on my shoulders and let him do it." Bob paused to watch the gathered children a bit, running his hand through his soft curls. "He's five already, Rod. Time does fly, don't it?"

"You got that right, Acey." Roddy agreed, patting the big man's chest with his palm. He too was watching the kids, and a moment later he moved towards them, and knelt putting his arms around two of them. "Have all of ya been good this year so Santa Claus can bring ya some nice things?"

Roddy grinned joyously at the children. He loved kids, and the big smile and happy crinkle of his eyes easily conveyed that. Bob was stood by with his arms crossed over his wide chest, watching the scene with an easy smile, enjoying the gauzy glow that the blinking tree lights cast over the faces of Roddy and the children.

The little boy under Roddy's arm grinned big—showing off his freckles and missing front teeth. The little girl, who was on the other side, looked up shyly through a curtain of blond bangs.

"I been good!" The little boy attested, giving his head a decisive nod. A few of the other children piped up, voicing that they too had been good and their faces were full of excitement for Santa—until a big girl in the back spoke up.

"Santa's not real." Her voice cut the joy into pieces, and Bob winced as the children's faces—almost all at the same time—fell into frowns of disappointment and upset. There were a few sniffles, and the shy little girl was now glaring at the bigger one who had killed the cheer. Her glare was topped only by the one coming from Roddy, but in a moment, he eased his expression back into a smile.

"Santa is too real. Don't you little ones listen to her, she's probably just upset 'cause Santa's gonna bring her a big ol' lump a coal!"

Bob almost laughed, but was able to disguise it into a cough at the last moment.

"Come on Roddy, we better get a movin' to our room." Bob reached down, and trailed his fingers through Roddy's shaggy hair. Roddy tweeked the little boys nose, and kissed the little girls forehead. Bob was grinning again, as Rod stood up to his feet. The bigger girl pushed past a couple of smaller children, stepping on someones toe and wringing a shriek from the boo-boo bearer.

"You are a liar, Mister!" She jabbed her finger at Roddy, looking smug behind a pair of plastic glasses. She twirled one of her pigtails, just waiting for Roddy's response. "I am _not_ getting' a lump of coal, 'cause Santa _isn't_ real…and all of you are big babies." She said to the other children, and stuck her tongue out. For a moment, Bob imagined Roddy giving some sort of high-strung Piper style rant to this child, and then sticking his tongue out right back at her—another cough-laugh was in order for that mental image.

"Oooh little girl…" Roddy wagged his finger, his annoyance evident in his voice. Bob was almost ready to whisper close to his ear: _Come on Rod, let's go, she's just a kid…_ Bob remembered a time when Bobby Heenan had blared out in an interview near Christmas time, that Santa wasn't real, and Rod had knocked him out of his chair for it. "Little girl. Listen to you, would ya? What a shame. Well I happen to know that all of you don't need to worry 'bout what this here little girl is sayin'…because…Santa Claus is real, and he's stayin' right here in this hotel tonight!"

A unified gasp arose from the group of children, and many wide, once more excited eyes gazed at Roddy and the cowboy who was facepalming.

"Can we see him?" A little boy in the back of the group piped up, standing up on his tippy toes. Bob could see it in Roddy's eyes, the wheels of his quick mind were turning, and Bob wondered just what Rod was dreaming up now. The hazel eyes flashed, ideas coming to life behind them.

"A 'course ya can see him! You just wait right here, an' he'll be down in a bit."

Roddy picked up his suitcase, and patted Bob.

"Come on Bob, we gotta go tell Santa to get ready for these here kids."

Bob nodded, and headed upstairs with Roddy.

They made detour to their room, and dropped their bags off, and then Roddy led Bob down the hall to someone elses room. Rod banged on the door, yelling for the occupant.

"Hey 'Merican Dream—open up, you and your child bearin' hips gotta come see ol' Rowdy Roddy!"

Bob stood behind Roddy, now highly amused. He understood now—Rod was going to try and make Dusty into some impromptu Santa for the children. Dusty was the logical choice, but as far as Bob could remember, Santa had a big white beard, and didn't normally wear jeans and cowboy boots. There was the slight chance however, that perhaps Santa had finally grown tired of the frigid North Pole and relocated to a more sunny climate, say, in Texas or something. The door swung open, and the space was filled with the big jolly blond man.

"Well, howdy theyah, if it ain' ol Ace an' his bodeh guard, Hot Rod! Ya'll come in, ya'll is always welcome boys. Mah hole in the wall, is your hole in the wall!" He motioned them inside, and Roddy gave Dusty a big hug.

"Well that's great Dusty, I love sharin' holes er…in walls…ya know what, never you mind about that. Ha! Hey look here Dusty, I uh…kinda got a favor to ask of ya." Roddy turned to Bob and added: "Don't we Ace?"

Bob nodded.

"Yep."

"He's a big talker, Bob is." Roddy went on, jerking a thumb at the curly headed man.

"You doan say? What kine a thang ya'll have in mine?" Dusty wrapped one arm around Roddy, who was still half-hugging him.

"How 'bout bein' Santa for some kids down in the lobby?" Roddy asked with a grin.

"Ooh! Ah say-that would be some kine a fun now Roddeh, it mos' certainly would! Ah jus' doan know where ah'd fine me a costume at this shawt a notice, boys."

"I'm sure we can rustle you somethin' up to make a decent Santa, right Ace?"

"You're always right, Rod." Bob grinned.

"I like this guy." Roddy told Dusty, pointing to Bob. "He's a stand up kinda guy! You too Dusty—you're a real stand up kinda guy and we'll make you into a fine Santa, you just wait!"

Dusty seemed legit excited, his smile was wide in his round face, his eyes crinkled with happiness. He moved around the room, and went to his suitcase which was sitting on a small table. He dug through it, and produced the first piece needed in the Santa costume puzzle.

"Ah do got this heyah hat, boys! Ah do have mahself a bit a the Chri'mas bug an' ah am glad ah bought this. Seem it gonna be put to some good use ahready!" Dusty pulled the hat onto his head, and Roddy gave the fuzzy little balled tip of it a tug.

"Don't you look just jolly!" He gushed. "You ain't got a red shirt or nothin' in there, do ya?" Rod pointed to the suitcase.

"Ah'm 'fraid not, an' ah'm a rather big sorta fella, if ya'll ain't notice…ah rather do enjoy me some bahbeque now an' then. Ah might have to skip the red part a' the costume, but ah do got the sexeh bodeh for it!" Dusty patted his belly. "Ah do howevah need a bit a hair on mah face to pull it off, doan ah boys?" Dusty stroked his chin, devoid of Santa's trademark beard.

"We'll make somethin' work." Roddy grabbed Bob's hand, and tugged him towards the door. "Come on Bob—we're on a mission, baby!"

The two came back to Dusty's room a bit later, with Bob carrying an armful of stuff Roddy had managed to gather from various superstars. Dusty picked through the items dumped out onto the bed, and as he touched each one, Rod launched into who it was from, and how he talked them in to giving it over to Roddy for costume purposes.

"We got a red sweater from Adrian Adonis. It might work out, seein' as how he's a pretty big guy too, there Dusty. An' this here came from Ventura. That guys got some crazy stuff in his collection." Roddy picked up a fuzzy white hat of some sort. "Was thinkin' we could maybe cut this somehow, make it into a beard."

The three went to work outfitting Dusty, and when they were finished, he looked passable to the eye of a child. He wore a tight fitting red sweater, jeans, someones black ring boots which had been donated to the cause, a makeshift beard from an article that Jesse would never get back—at least not in one piece—and his Santa hat.

"Ho ho ho, boys. Ah do believe Dusteh Claus is readeh to get down an' boogeh!" Rod and Bob laughed, amused as Dusty gave a little dance and wiggle in his new do. The three of them headed downstairs, where the group of children-minus the mean little girl from earlier-were waiting eagerly for Dusty Claus. A few parents had showed up, most likely roped into staying to see this mysterious Santa Claus after some begging from their children. The little ones flocked to Dusty as soon as he sat down upon a sofa that was near the Christmas display in the lobby. He pulled one of them onto his knee, and took right to it, making the children giggle, and seeming to be a natural. Roddy leaned into Bob, pleased as he watched the children, who were once again all smiles. Bob wrapped his arm around Rod.

"Roddy, you really are somethin'." He said quietly. "This is just about the cutest thing I've ever seen."

Roddy raised an eyebrow at Bob. It was pretty cute, actually, it was heartwarming all the way down to the toes. But Roddy just couldn't let that slide, it wasn't in his nature.

"Cutest thing you've ever seen, apart from me, right Acey?"

Bob laughed, and ruffled Roddy's hair.

"I told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Rod. You're always right."


	2. Chapter 2

_Pairing: Shawnnetty (Shawn Michaels/Marty Jannetty.)_

**The Fourth Day - 1985**

It had all started on December 13. Shawn had showed up at Marty's apartment, which was nothing unusual. After all, he only lived a floor down and he and Marty were best friends and tag partners. They were often flopping at one anothers place, and Shawn had often wondered why they didn't just share a place. It would have been cheaper, but then he _did_ remember. Marty said something stupid about needing his space. What was that supposed to mean? A space just isn't a space worth having anyway, if Shawn Michaels isn't in it! Shawn had also showed up on December 13 at Marty's place, drunk. Once again, it wasn't a big deal—Marty was in fact a little buzzed himself. He answered the door, wearing just a pair of jeans, his hair a bit mussed but still in usual mullet form. His soft blue eyes beheld Shawn, who was grinning from ear to ear, his pretty hair cascading over his shoulders. He was also holding a pear, and noting that, Marty's eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"Shawn?"

"You're good with names, aren't you Marty?" Shawn joked, and tossed his green-brown pear from one hand to the other. "Ahem. On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to meeeeeee…" Shawn held the pear up by the stem, twirling it. "Perfection under a pear!"

Marty blinked at him, his head aching a little.

"Is that some kind of a song or something?"

Shawn rolled his eyes, and pushed past Marty, letting him into the other mans apartment.

"Twelve Days Of Christmas—refurbished, reinvented, re-lots of stuff by Shawn fuckin' Michaels. "Here Marty, your true love hath brought you Perfection Under a Pear. I couldn't find a pear tree and anyway, who wants a tree in an apartment?"

Marty reluctantly took the fruit, still not really understanding.

"And a partridge?" Shawn went on, parading around the apartment, kicking at or deftly stepping over beer cans and empty take out boxes. "What the hell is fucking partridge?"

"Well there is that show, The Partridge Family." Marty looked down at the pear in his hand. _On the first day of Christmas my True Love gave to me…_

"I don't think that's what the song meant, Jan." Shawn flopped himself down onto the couch, and then winced, and scooted over. "I'm so pretty, even your sofa is trying to fuck me!" Shawn motioned towards a coil of spring that had worked itself out from one of the many holes in the poor, sad looking, and dilapidated sofa.

"I don't get the part about True Love and…it isn't Christmas yet…is it?" Marty scratched at his hair, wondering if he had really lost track of time _that_ badly. It had happened before, but he was trying to do a little better. A little.

"I'm your True Love, and I brought you a fucking gift so-" Shawn threw his hands up, in frustration. "Never mind. It was just a joke, just a stupid song, ya know? It didn't mean a thing." Shawn's voice now dripped with sarcasm, and his sudden turn seemed to confuse Marty even more. The dark haired man looked from Shawn, to the pear, and back to Shawn.

"Oh you are just—ridiculous!" Shawn exclaimed. "Maybe you'll get it by the twelfth day, if I'm lucky." Shawn stomped out of the apartment, giving a good punt to an empty milk carton. A little brown roach scurried out, and disappeared itself under Marty's slouching sofa.

The next day found Shawn at Marty's door again. The knocking sounded like pounding, and was repeated several times until Marty was finally roused out of unconsciousness. He managed to get himself up off the floor and to the door without falling over anything—or nothing at all. In a hung-over state, it is quite possible to trip over absolutely nothing. The knocking on his door swelled inside of his head, making it ache and hum and if this was the landlord coming with some sort of threat, Marty was going to slam the door in his face. The face he saw when he cracked the door open however, wasn't the landlords. It was blurry, but easily recognizable as Shawn's.

"Mmm…what?" Marty mumbled. Shawn pushed the door open wider and Marty scrunched his eyes to tiny, offended slits. The sunlight seemed blinding.

"On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to meee…" Shawn sang, and Marty felt like throwing up on him. "Two turtles, and Dove." Shawn held out his hands. In one palm, wrapped in plastic wrap, were two chocolate turtle candies. In the other hand, was a box of Dove brand soap. For a moment, Marty almost believed he was just having some dream, and was still in reality passed out in a lump on the dirty floor.

"Um, thanks Shawn." He mumbled again, and took the candies and soap. "I guess I do need a shower." He rubbed his eyes, trying to recall when he had last had one. The last time he remembered setting foot into the grimy shower, he had forgotten to take his clothes off. He couldn't remember why, but it probably had something to do with the cans and bottles strewn around the floor.

"Aw…how 'bout I help dirty you up then? I mean—clean you up. You have room for me in that shower…riiiight?" Shawn draped himself onto Marty. When Shawn had first came up with his idea of 'Two turtles, and Dove' instead of 'Two turtle doves' he had thought it was kind of stupid, but it was the closest he could get. However, the more he thought about it, the better it seemed. He could use that soap in the shower with Marty, under the hot spray of water—(assuming Marty still had water, or that it would actually get hot) and after a nice, long, sexual shower, Shawn could feed Marty those two little chocolates and taste the sweetness of them lingering on Marty's lips. Not bad Michaels, not bad at all. Shawn grinned.

"I think my water got turned off. I didn't pay the utilities last mo—wait, what month is it?"

Shawn scowled, and pulled away from the dark haired man. He couldn't help but be annoyed, but then, Marty's clueless face made Shawn's aggravation fall away, a little.

"Then come down to my place…I actually had enough to pay mine, this time around!" Shawn grasped Marty's hand, and pulled him towards the door.

"Ug, no Shawn, I really don't feel good. Imma go lay down."

Shawn's shoulders slumped, as he watched Marty turn away from him, and drag himself over to the couch, where he curled up. With a sigh, Shawn left, and began planning for Day Three.

_Knock knock knock._

Ah, a sobered Marty, a rare and endangered species! Shawn thought to himself, as Marty opened the door on Day 3, looking brighter and more 'there' than he had for quite sometime. Shawn only hoped that he wasn't quite as bad when he was impaired, and in fact he knew he couldn't be. He was buzzed right now, and still functioning quite fine. He moved himself into Marty's apartment, and pointed to the plastic bag in his hand.

"Helloooo Marty. Guess what today is? Today is the Third Day. Do you know what your True Love brings on the third day?"

Marty's face screwed up in thought—which amused Shawn. He was actually thinking about it, trying to remember the Christmas song and what gift was traditionally present in trio form on the third day.

"Some kind of chicken, isn't it?"

"Wow, I'm shocked!" Shawn laughed. "Yeah, three French hens…only I didn't think you'd want any chickens running around in here. I hear chickens drink too much." Shawn added, bringing a small smile from Marty. "And besides, roosters are better than hens, hence the reason I bring to you on the third day…" Shawn pulled one of the things out from the plastic bag he had, and Marty's face turned to a dark shade of red. "Three French Cocks!" Shawn grinned, waving a dildo. He pulled out the other two. "Well, alright ya got me. I don't know if they're really French—they're probably made in China, but give a guy a break! Besides, this one spoke to me in a Parisian accent." Shawn motioned towards the first one he had sprung on Marty, a big cotton candy pink one. "And this one?" He held up the second. "Uh, kinda looks like the Eiffel Tower, doesn't it?" He frowned at the third one. "This one told me it was a pacifist, so it must be French. It also vibrates." He added, and if possible, Marty's face colored even more.

"Oh, Shawn…jeez…you…"  
"I know! I didn't have to get you such wonderful gifts, but I'm a loving person and I like to give gifts. Buuuut if you don't like these fake ones, I happen to know where you could find the real thing." Shawn winked, and non-discretely pointed downwards, towards his own crotch.

"Shawn I really…don't understand what…" Marty glanced at the three cocks, so embarrassed that he could hardly form words. He actually owned one of those pink ones.

Shawn threw the fake penises onto the floor, angrily.

"I'm trying to fucking seduce you!"

"With soap and d-dildos?" Marty squeaked.

"Sounds gay enough to me!" Shawn ranted.

"Why do you wanna seduce me? We have sex all the time, I don't understand what a pear has to do with it."

Shawn rolled his eyes.

"It wasn't the damn pear, Jan. It was the offering of perfection which was under the pair." Shawn ran a hand through his hair. "Listen, it doesn't matter. You're right, we have sex. It doesn't mean anything. We just make each other feel good. I don't know—I don't know what I'm fuckin' trying to do, okay? Just never mind!" Shawn headed for the door, hurt, and angry. In his mind he was trying his best to do something different, but Marty didn't even get it.

"Shawn, don't go. Come on, man!" Marty watched as Shawn ignored his pleading, and just left with the slam of the door.

The next morning, Shawn woke up to the sound of his doorbell buzzing. He had no idea that his doorbell even worked—he had assumed that in the condition everything else about the place was, something like a door bell, would certainly be non-functioning, and until now no one had ever used it to prove him wrong. Who the hell could that be? Shawn rolled off of his mattress, wincing at the pain his lower back. He gave a couple of stretches and twists to try and relieve it, and then headed for the door. He was surprised when he saw Marty there, not because it was Marty, but because he looked so good just then—in fact, the sight at first stole Shawn's words away from him. Marty smiled a little at Shawn, it was a shy kind of smile, and it was the one that had first attracted Shawn to him. Marty was fiddling with something small in his hands.

"On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…Four Calling Cards." He said, and fanned out four small slips of paper. "Thought you would like these better than four calling birds." Marty said, and read off the words on each card. They were like coupons. "Dinner, a movie, a kiss, and…um…this one."

Shawn couldn't help but grin. The last calling card was for a night of sex. Despite the fact that they slept together often, Marty still had trouble actually talking about it. God, he was so damn cute. Shawn took the four slips of paper from Marty, and read the words written in Marty's script. He put the slips into his pocket, and rested his palm against the warm swatch of skin that peeked from the open V of Marty's loud-patterned shirt.

"Can I use them all tonight?" Shawn asked, stroking a piece of Marty's hair.

"Whenever you want." Marty replied, resting one hand on Shawn's hip.

That evening, Marty took Shawn to the Chinese place down the street. It was the nicest thing he could afford, but Shawn seemed to thoroughly enjoy it, just because they were together. After noodles and fortune cookies, they walked home and flopped at Shawn's place, finding a movie on the little t.v. set that Shawn owned. The picture jumped sometimes, but Shawn didn't seem to mind that either, as long as Marty's arm was around him, and they were cuddled up close. Near the end of the movie, calling card three was spent in a sensual kiss. Shawn enjoyed the taste of Marty's lips, without the usual flavor of stale beer on them. The two of them moved to Shawn's mattress, shedding clothes along the way, and card five was spent all night long, on the best Fourth Day of Christmas that must have ever existed.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Think a bit abstractly, some of these things are symbolic as well as being just what they are. Enjoy! I also apologize for the length of time it took me to get this one out—with this particular pair, I was under a massive writers block for a while. Thanks to those of you who helped me get thru it, you know who you are *hugs*_

_Includes: Bret Hart, Davey Boy Smith._

**Skating On Thin Ice-1988**

Bret looked around at the fir trees, their branches laden with snow, their spiked-forms jutting up proudly against a pale sky like spires of winter diamonds. He shuffled his booted feet a little, hearing the familiar crunch of snowfall under tread. He was however, a little curious as to why Davey had brought him here, after all of the Christmas festivities at the Hart House had finally wound down to a close. The majority of the family had trickled out during the day, leaving the large house less crowded. The ones who were staying longer eventually wandered to their rooms. Stu was asleep in his chair by the fireplace, the younger children happily played with their newest gifts, and Owen and some of the girls helped Helen clean up the massive amount of dishes left stacked in the kitchen.

Davey, however, had taken Bret aside and convinced him to join him for an evening walk through a nearby park. Davey had driven them there, and now Bret was standing in the chilly Calgary air, his nose and cheeks reddening with the tingle of winter breath. Now and again the wind gusted up a bit, and caught a couple of stray curls and danced them around Bret's handsome face. His dark eyes watched the larger form of his brother-in-law as he rounded the car and popped the trunk. Before ducking his head to look at or for whatever he had in there—Davey flashed Bret one of his trademark charming grins. It was a grin that let Bret know he was up to something.

Bret stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and waded through the thick snow and peered over one of Davey's huge shoulders. Davey turned, and shut the trunk. He held up two pairs of ice skates, dangling them from their laces like over sized ornaments hung on a British Bulldog Christmas tree. His eyes twinkled behind his glasses, and the downturn of Bret's lips as he looked from one pair of skates to the other, did not hinder the big man from still entertaining his hopes of getting Bret out onto the frozen water with him.

"Oh, come on Bret! It'll be fun!" He encouraged, not waiting for Bret to say the word 'no'. The dark haired man had already said it with one look, anyway.

"Ice skating? Did ya bring the fairy looking tutus?"

"Ah, damn it Hart." Davey shoved one pair of the skates at Bret, forcing him to either hold onto them or let them drop and disappear into the near foot of snow blanketing the ground. Bret grabbed them by instinct, and held them against his chest. "I did forget the tutus! But I'm sure your pink and black tights will do well enough for some faggery between friends." Davey's grin widened, and he gave a hearty laugh.

"What's that supposed to mean? The crack about my tights?" Bret huffed, and flicked an errant curl out of his face. "Real men wear pink."

"Oh go on. Keep telling yourself that. Now see here—put those on. We're going out there." Davey jerked a thumb towards the pond. Being that it was Christmas day, it was deserted.

"First of all, Bret Hart doesn't involve himself in any sort of faggery, between friends or otherwise. Secondly, I'm not goin' out there on that ice today. You wouldn't want Vince McMahon's top athlete to bust his ass and be out of commission, would ya?"

"Heavens no. The whole company would topple, surely!" Davey sat against the back bumper of the car, pulled one boot off, and replaced it with a skate. Bret's expression went flat. "In fact, the whole past, present, and future of the wrestling world as a whole would be right devastated and destroyed! It wouldn't never be the same again should Bret Hart bust his arse on Christmas. What a travesty!"

"I don't think that kinda sarcasm was called for." Bret sat down next to Davey, watching him lace and tie the second skate.

"Doesn't matter whether it was called for or it wasn't, you still got it, now didn't you?"

"Remind me again why we're friends?" Bret quipped, although he was now smiling, ever so slightly, but a ghost of one was shadowed against his pretty lips. Davey knew, because he was looking at them closely.

"Oh, because you like it when I do this." Davey flexed one of his arms, the bulge of his huge bicep stretched the fabric of his coat to a point that seemed near popping. "Puts a spell on folks." Davey added. "Skates. Now." He pointed to Bret's feet, which were still encased in a pair of heavy brown boots rather than the footwear Davey had shoved at him. With a sigh that denoted an amount of suffering that was clearly exaggerated (but probably right to Bret in his own mind) Bret tossed off his boots and replaced them with the skates.

"They're on. Now I put my boots back on, and we go home."

"Nope. Now I do this."

Before Bret could react, he was hoisted over Davey's shoulder and carted off towards the pond. Protesting would have been futile, so he stayed quiet, his only show of annoyance the scowl on his face. If he didn't kill himself on that pond, Davey was sure to turn his ankle before they even got there, and maim them both in the snow. A man Davey's size walking through snow balanced on two thin, metal blades, whilst carrying a grown man on his shoulder, seemed like a recipe for injury and other forms of such fun disaster. He could feel the wobble in Davey's footsteps, but they were sure enough to have made it all the way to the edge of the pond without mishap. Davey put him down, and it was Bret's turn to wobble on the thin blades, though he did his best to hide it.

"There. Now, come on." Davey said simply, and stepped out onto the ice. Davey must have done this a time or two before, because he seemed to be balancing on them pretty well. Bret watched as he skated around a bit, not very gracefully, but well enough that he didn't seem in danger of falling. Bret however, hadn't even stepped onto the frozen pond yet, and his strong legs were still wobbling.

"Are you coming?"

"No."

"You can't skate, can you?" Davey asked, his lips twitching in playful smile as he saw Bret's eyes narrow at him. He had hit on something. "You call yourself a proud Canadian, and you can't even skate? How terribly-"

"I can too skate!" Bret cut him off, and hoped he didn't look as nervous as he felt as he stepped one foot onto the ice. Davey skated nearer to him, and offered a hand to help him out onto the ice. Bret ignored it, choosing to go with the voice of ego rather than the voice of reason. His other foot stepped upon the glassy surface, and his legs were shaking worse than before. He envisioned himself at any moment, sliding into a painful and unstoppable split, or slipping around with splayed legs like a newborn calf all clumsy and ripe with awkwardness. He decided the blow to his pride would be greater than any suffered in a potential fall (he hoped it would remain a _potential_ fall and not a real one) but he was going to do this anyway. After all, it couldn't be that hard, could it? He just had to get his legs to stop jello-ing like the bones in them had given way to rubber.

"Hart, you alright there?"

"Yep. Just fine. Just…it's cold out here, that's all."

Davey shook his head.

"You're sure you're not from Texas?"

Bret ignored the comment, and took a couple more careful steps. _This is ridiculous._

"It's just been a while since I've done this." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter and he would soon enough be skating circles backwards around his brother-in-law, maybe even throwing in a couple of fancy spins along the way. _Yeah, it's just been a while since I've done this…like never._ "You just wait, in a minute I'll be-" Suddenly, with the next step, Bret's feet were sliding in a sudden confusion and his legs were doing anything other than what he wanted them to do. _And this is how The Hitman breaks his ass, Thank You Davey Smith._ He had time to think it quickly before the fall—except, there was no fall. His heart was still thundering from the panic of impending doom, but he realized that he was not lying wounded upon the ice. Strong arms were wrapped around him, intercepting and keeping him from an ungraceful crash. His face was pressed into the thick column of Davey's neck, their chests melded together between the layers of their coats and clothing, their arms securely wrapped around one another. The muscles of Bret's thighs trembled against the other man, although the feeling of being unbalanced and unsteady was leaving him. Davey was holding him, balancing him, keeping him from falling.

"It's ok, Bret. I've got you." The big man whispered against his ear, and the warmth of his breath beneath the chill of the air made him shiver, a feeling more than the cold settling into his bones.

"You…you can let me go." Bret answered slowly, as a part of himself that was always on guard spoke up and told him how they must look.

"I know I can, but I'm not sure I want to." Davey answered, his lips dangerously close to the sensitive shell of Bret's ear. He began to wiggle and squirm, wanting to get away from the embrace—which was in itself warm and comforting, but in concept it felt like claustrophobia. _Or some other sort of phobia-_Bret's mind added, and he wished it would shut up.

Reluctantly, Davey uncircled his arms, but he kept his fingers linked with Bret's, their hands together. Bret held on simply because he was apt to slip again, and Davey was his only safety out on this deserted ice that he tip-toed upon.

"Let's go back." Bret said quietly, looking up at Davey through his dark lashes, in a way that reminded Davey of a shy girl who was too self-conscious to acknowledge a secret crush. Davey wasn't the type to push too hard though, and he'd prodded Bret enough for today. Besides, he had gotten what he had really wanted, which had nothing at all to do with ice skating, and the simple embrace was enough of a gift to last Davey at least until next Christmas.

Their footsteps left similar paths back to the car, and a light snow began to drift on the air. Perhaps one day Bret would stop being afraid to step out, and they could dance upon that thin ice together.


	4. Chapter 4

a/n: Thanks for the reads and reviews so far. Just a quick note where Roddy refs Greg Valentine and his ear, that has to do w/ an irl match where Rod decided it would be a good idea for them to use collars with a big heavy chain connected. They had a dog collar match, and it was hellacious. During the match Valentine legit injured Rod's ear w/the chain, leaving him w/permanent hearing loss. Anyway, that's what that ref is all about. Go check it out on youtube sometime. HxC back in thee day. Also, the movie mentioned w/Rod and Ventura is called 'Tag Team' I haven't seen it yet but of course I want too xD Apparently, they're a tag team. They get blackballed from wrestling, so they decide to do the logical thing and become cops. It's probably cheesy but Rod in a police uniform? Yes please. *drool* Okey. Enjoy :D

_Pairing: Ric Flair, Roddy Piper._

**Mistletoe Mayhem-1991**

Ric got off of an airplane in Oregon, and stretched his legs. In what was becoming a Christmas tradition, Ric had flown out here to meet his long time friend and lover, Roddy Piper. Years ago when they had first crossed that blurry line between friendship and more, Rod had invited him out to the family home for the holidays. Ric loved Rod's family as much as the man himself, and not being particularly close with his own, he always accepted the invite. Kitty and the children always made him smile, it was good to feel the kind of warmth and welcome that was always in abundance in that home. Kitty was an angel, the type of woman Ric would probably never find—but then, that's what Roddy was for. That thought made Ric grin as he pushed his sunglasses up into his platinum hair.

He made his way through the airport and soon enough found Roddy waiting for him. Rod's familiar face was easy to pick out of a sea of strangers. With a grin a mile wide, Ric strode up to Rod whose face was just as overtaken by his own smile. The two men embraced, their arms around each other always a welcoming comfort. Rod pressed a quick kiss to Ric's cheek, one to never hide his affections.

"How are ya, man?" He patted Ric's back, and took his suitcase.

"Oh, you know Rod—same ol' Ric! Kiss stealin', wheelin' dealin', and all that."

"Right." Rod said, walking with the blond through the throng of travelers.

"And you? How's my favorite Hot Scot?"

"Ah, rowdy as ever. Kitty and the kids are great—just got done doin' a film with Jesse Ventura." Roddy scratched at his hair, giving his head a little shake. "Um…I wouldn't bother seein' it. Pays the bills though!"

Ric laughed with him, thinking that it really didn't matter, because he'd watch anything with Roddy in it. If Rod's face was on the screen, it was good. He'd even watched that really ridiculous one—Hell Comes To Frogtown—but he wouldn't ever say so to Rod. Rod had specifically told Ric to take a pass on that one, and Ric could see why. The concept of Roddy being used as a sex slave to impregnate the women of the future was however, highly amusing. The fact that he had to wear a kind of hi-tech chastity belt which would blow his junk up should he try to remove it…not quite as amusing. He glanced over at Roddy, as the other man sat Ric's suitcase into the backseat of his car. Ric ducked in, and Rod started the car. With a wry smile, Ric decided to toss it out there.

"So Rod, tell me…how'd it feel to kiss a frog?"

Roddy's brows knitted in confusion for a moment, as he back the car out of the parking space.

"A frog? What are you talkin' abou…oh. Oh, Ric! I told ya not to go watchin' that awful movie. But if ya really wanna know, it felt kinda like kissin' you." Rod teased, laughing heartily as Ric flicked him in the ear.

Both of them chattered on the trip from the airport, Rod more than Ric as usual, but Ric never minded. Roddy liked to talk, and Ric liked the sound of his voice and his animated expressions. Now and again they'd launch off into some story from a few years back, and they'd take turns finishing each others sentences, bawling laughter, or hollering "HEY DO YOU REMEMBER…" even when the asker knew that the moment he was referring to was one that neither man could possibly forget. The road passed by underneath the spinning tires and spinning yarns, and soon Rod was pulling into another parking space, though not in front of his home in the mountains. The two men were at a shopping mall.

"I hope ya don't mind Ric, but I kind of have to do some last minute shoppin' for Kitty."

Ric just shook his head.

"Pipes, it's 6pm on Christmas Eve…are you fuckin' serious?"

Rod turned to him with a grave expression.

"Yes. I am quite fuckin' serious."

The two of them exited the car, and entered the mall. It was like a farm of ants dolled up for Christmas. Both men were bumped and jarred, elbows and ladies purses nudging them as they tried to move through the mass of chaos.

"Rod…did you just grab my ass?" Ric hissed, and tried to move closer to Roddy as a cranky child hung up in his mother's arms burst into squalling screams right next to Rod's ear. Rod moved closer to Ric too, and they both stepped on each other's feet.

"Jeez…I'm glad that wasn't my deaf ear." Roddy made a face, and gave his head a good shake, his shaggy hair flopping around. "HUH what was that there Ric? I didn't hear ya. I got Greg Valentine fucked up in this ear, and a kid screamin' in the other."

"My ass, Pipes." Ric said. "Did ya just grab it?"

Roddy blinked at him.

"Why would I stab your ass?" Both men paused and stopped in their steps. Roddy laid a hand on Ric's shoulder. "Never mind—don't answer that right now."

They continued their journey through the crowd, feeling the way a fish must feel if it tried to swim upstream against a raging current. By the time they reaches the jewelry store Rod was seeking out, they were sure they'd taken more bumps than they had in their last wrestling matches. The jewelry store was just slightly less crowded than the rest of the mall seemed to be. Rows of procrastinating manhood lined the cases. Hands pressed against the glass, eyes peered at the winking gems and precious metals, and widened at the prices. They were everywhere, they who shop at the last minute. Roddy nudged his way in between a couple of men, and looked around at the necklaces on display. He planned to get Kitty a diamond cross, he was sure she would love that, and his eye just happened to fall on a beautiful one in the corner. The center stone was her birthstone, and it would look beautiful against her soft skin. It was perfect.

"Yes, I'd like that one." The man huddled next to Roddy spoke to the salesman, and pointed to the exact piece Rod had designated for Kitty.

"Hey—me too." Rod added, as the salesman pulled the necklace from the case.

"I'm sorry Sir, I'll be with you in a moment." The young man behind the counter took care of the other man, and then turned to Roddy. "Now, what can I do for you, Sir?"

Roddy jerked his thumb at the man who had just purchased the cross necklace. The guy was still loitering around, admiring it and talking to himself about how much Janice was going to like it.

"I wanna get one a' those too. My wife's gonna love it."

Ric stood nearby, looking over a few of the baubles under the glass.

"I'm sorry, but that we're sold out of those. That was the last one."

Roddy turned to the man who held his wife's necklace. The man snapped the box with the necklace inside of it closed, and turned on his heel to leave. Rod grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Hey, wait a minute." He looked from the customer, to the salesman. "Lemme talk to your manager, I'll pay double what that guy paid for it."

The man with the necklace huffed, obviously offended.

"I already paid for it—the store manager has nothing to do with it now!" He jerked his hand away from Rod, who grabbed it again.

"Then I'll pay ya double. C'mon man, whaddya say?"

The guy glared at Roddy through his ugly pair of glasses.

"This is for my girlfriend, _not_ for you."

"Oh-ho, a girlfriend, huh? Well jeez I bet a twerp like you is real lucky to score one a' those. Why don't ya buy her an engagement ring 'stead of a necklace like that there…that's the kinda thing a guy gets for his wife, after she's bored with the rest a' the jewelry ya got her."

"I did't buy her a ring because we're not getting married. We're cohabitating." He fixed his ugly glasses and added with an air of offense, for some reason, as if Rod had given him the whole talk about living together. "It's the nineties!"

"Really? I musta lost count at 89'."

"Rod, come on man." Ric touched Roddy's shoulder. "Let's just go. I'm sure we can find somethin' else for Kitty…I'll help ya."

Roddy watched the annoying twerp with the ugly glasses and his Kitty's Christmas gift walk away. He wished he had a coconut, Jimmy Snuka style. His annoyance was broken a moment later, as the two men walked out of the store together.

"Hey Ric…did you just grab my ass? Horny little devil…" He landed a quick pat to Ric's rear.

"Hm?" Ric eyed the other man with some confusion. "Nope, I sure didn't."

Both of them stopped, and spun around at the same time. Rod's hand's felt around the back pockets of his jeans—his wallet was missing.

"There!" Ric pointed, seeing a young man with Rod's wallet slip into the throng of people. He could tell it was Rod's because just above the kid's hand, he could make out the leather tooled RR that made the wallet unique to his lover. It was in fact, a gift from Ric to Rod from last Christmas, and that little punk was not getting away with it.

Ric and Rod bolted through the crowd, chasing after the thief. Shouts and threats issued from both of them as they weaved in and out, trying not to upset the elderly, or knock hats off of offended ladies. Someone whacked Ric's back with a purse that felt like a brick, but he had no time to stop for an elbow drop. He kept running, chasing down the bandit. Their chase took them through Sears, where the kid cut through the women's shoe department. Ric grabbed a boot from the display rack and chucked it at the kids head, but it missed. Roddy skidded into a saleswoman, who had a tower of balanced shoe boxes in her arms. The collision sent man, woman, and shoes to the floor. With a hurried apology, Roddy scrambled to his feet, and kept running to catch up with Ric and the kid who had his wallet.

Now they were dashing through the food court, avoiding innocent people with trays of food. The lady giving free samples in front of the Magic Wok wasn't as lucky, however, and as Ric bolted past he accidentally bumped into her. Slices of eggrolls and bits of General Tso's skewered on toothpicks flew up and came down like rain. The kid ducked into a store full of soaps, perfumes, and lotions, and with a cry Ric lunged for him. Both of them went down onto a glass table laden with flasks of perfume. The table crashed beneath their combined weight, and glass stoppers uncapped themselves as the flasks scattered and rolled over the tiles, tinkling like silver bells on a reindeer's harness. Perfume leaked in puddles over the tiles, filling the small store with a mix of overwhelming scents. With screams, hacking coughs, and more than a few sneezes, the store was easily cleared out. Ric and the kid rolled around in the glass and perfume, both temporarily blinded and suffocated by the mess they'd made. Ric was drenched in the stuff, and so was the kid, and in the mayhem the kid managed to get up to his feet and slip-slide towards the exit. Rod launched at him that time, wrapping around the kids waist. Both of their feet slid around on the soaked floor for a moment, before Roddy's went out from under him and landed him on his ass with an 'oof'. The kid scrambled to get away—and was off again. Rod grabbed Ric, who was still hacking and sneezing, feeling like he was in some drug induced funk from having inhaled enough perfume to last five hundred women for five hundred life times.

"Gah—my fuckin…ey-eyes…P-Pipes!" Ric coughed and sputtered, as he attempted to regain some form of breathing and vision.

"I gotta go—he's gettin' away!" Rod took off again, seeing the kid duck around a corner. "Aaaah no ya don't, ya little puke!" Rod hollered, and quickly made up the lost ground. The boy ran past a stand where a woman was showing a crowd of people some new gadget that iced cupcakes. "Excuse me there, miss." Rod grabbed one of the newly iced cakes, and launched it at the kids head like a missile. He grabbed a couple more, and huffed after the kid, who now had a glob of red icing in the back of his hair. He launched the rest of his cupcakes, not sure how they were meant to stop the kid. He was just pissed, and it seemed like a good idea.

After a couple more twists and turns, he was able to catch the kid again, and in a fit of rage slammed him head first into the huge Christmas tree that was the display in the middle of the mall. The green fir branches shivered, a couple of giant, candy-colored balls dropped from their places, and crashed to the floor one after another and shattered into millions of tiny metallic pieces. The tree wobbled. Roddy looked up at it, as it began to lean over.

"Oh…shit…" The tree began to topple. "OUTTA THE WAY!" He hollered to anyone and everyone around—and the massive tree fell, smashing bulbs, lights, candy-canes, and the pick-pocket beneath it. Roddy's palm met his forehead.

"We got 'em, Pipes." Ric said, coming up behind Roddy in a cloud of pungency. He laid his hand on Rod's shoulder, and sneezed.

Kitty looked at the two men in her living room. Nothing much surprised her, with being married to Roddy Piper, so she didn't often ask questions.

"Merry Christmas, Kitty." Roddy said, sheepishly, handing her a small box. It wasn't the necklace the twerp with the glasses bought out from under his nose, but it was similar. Her face lit up.

"It's beautiful, Rod. I love it."

"She better." Ric mumbled, as his eyes watered and leaked. Kitty twitched her nose, as Rod fastened the necklaces clasp beneath her hair.

"Ric…I think you went a little overboard on the cologne." She smiled at him, and then her ears perked as the news anchor on the t.v. behind Ric spoke a pair of names that she knew well.

"In other news, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and Ric Fl-"

Roddy grabbed the remote and quickly turned the tube off. He rubbed at the back of his head, trying to smile innocently at his wife.

"The news, who needs it."

She just shook her head.

"I won't ask."


	5. Chapter 5

_Includes: Jeff Jarrett, Owen Hart._

**No Crib For A Bed-1995**

"Owen, ya really need to let go a' the fanny pack. Ya'll look like a kangaroo with bad taste in accessories."

Jeff Jarrett glanced over at the leather pouch, as he and Owen walked through the city. The sidewalks were full of people, their breath huffing out in tiny white plumes. Cheeks and noses were cherry-red, and hair poked out from beneath swaddled scarves and perched hats. Hands were gloved, or stuffed into pockets. A fine snow swirled on the crisp, cold air. The tinkle of bells being rang by Salvation Army volunteers, who huddled around their red collection pots, were a faint musical beneath the sounds of cars cramped into the streets, and people chattering as they passed by under a heightening sense of urgency as the holidays drew nearer. The two of them stopped at a large store window, inside a blinking sign was hung and it declared: 2 Days Til Christmas. Lights danced around the joyful announcement, a border of red chasing green.

"A kangaroo, huh?" Owen asked pausing to watch the lights for a moment. The colors flickered over his face, his grin upturning at the corners. "I don't think kangaroos come from Canada, Jeff."

They started walking again, and Jeff went on in his southern drawl.

"Well, this one sure did." He nudged Owen with his hip.

"It can't look too outta place, especially with me carrying this Teddy Bear around." Owen displayed the Teddy which had been tucked under his arm as proof, as if Jeff had forgotten that he'd bought it. The fuzzy white bear with the red bow and silver bells at its neck had been purchased a few stores back, and was meant for Owen's new baby girl, Athena. She'd been born exactly two months ago on this day, and Owen had yet to see her. He imagined her to be the most beautiful baby girl on the planet, taking of course after her mother.

"That Teddy Bear's prolly big as she is, O. Ah-" Jeff's eyes grew wide, when the bear was suddenly and easily tugged away from Owen's unsuspecting grasp. Jeff barely had time to process the child before it bolted, with Athena's Teddy Bear. Owen spun around, shocked, as Jeff darted after the child. He watched Jeff disappear into an alley way, and then took off after him. When he rounded the corner he found Jeff on the other side of an overflowing dumpster, splots and splashes of frozen goo and broken glass littering the snow. Jeff was irate, his usually soft southern twang snapping out like a whip. As Owen moved around the dumpster, snow and glass crunching under his boots, he saw that Jeff was snarling at a small black boy whom he had pinned against the stained brick wall. Jeff was holding the Teddy in one hand, wagging it furiously as he went on.

"Don't'cha know better than ta steal from people?"

Owen moved closer, and placed a hand on Jeff's shoulder.

"Jeff?"

"Gah!" Spooked, Jeff whirled around, calming and breathing deep only when he saw it was just Owen's goofty face. "Gah damn O, ya really scared me."

"I think you're pretty scary yourself." Owen said quietly, his eyes cutting back to the little boy who had slid down the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. Patches of dark skin showed through the rips and tears in his jeans, he had to be cold. Jeff looked to where Owen was looking, and felt his anger wash away to guilt.

"Ah didn't mean to…he jus'…well he stole from ya." Jeff looked at the white bear in his hands. Owen knelt, and smiled at the boy, who was now shivering…either from the cold or fear, Owen wasn't sure.

"Hey kid. I'm not gonna hurt ya…my name's Owen." He pulled the leather glove off of his hand, and extended it to the boy. After a moments hesitation, the tiny hand wrapped in a scrap of clothe reached for his. When Owen closed his hand around the boys, it completely disappeared. He was so small, what was he doing out here all by himself? Owen wanted to hug him, but the boy would probably disappear entirely in Owen's big arms. Besides, the goal was to _not_ frighten him anymore, not to send him into a screaming fit. "What's your name?"

The boy continued to eye him warily, but his hand didn't leave the warm, large one around his. Their hands had stopped moving in a gesture of introduction, however, and the big blond man was just holding it, making the chill and tingle leak out from his fingers. The boy pressed his lips together, still unsure, but Owen's kind eyes kept smiling at him, so he said his name on a whisper.

"Levon."

"Are you lost, Levon?" Owen opened his other hand, facing it palm up. Right away the boys other hand rested against his palm. This one had no scrap of cloth to give it a meager protection from the winter cold, and the tiny fingers were cut and scraped, dirt wedged under the broken nails. Owen held that hand too, feeling the ice-cold slowly melt away from it. A realization was coming to him, about this child, and it was a conclusion he did not want to be true.

"I ain't los'." The boy answered, his voice rising in confidence a bit as he began to become less afraid.

Jeff squeezed the Teddy Bear tighter in his hands, as he watched the interactions. His heart was beginning to pound, as the reality of what had happened was sinking in on him. This little boy had stolen Athena's Teddy Bear, this little boy on the streets, this little boy who _lived_ on the streets. He _was_ lost, and he didn't even realize it.

"Oh mah gawd." Jeff knelt too, one hand running over his blond hair as he tried to guesstimate Levon's age. His childs face was smeared with grime, his dark hair clumped up and matted. In his anger, Jeff hadn't even noticed the way one of his eyes was crusted, or the way his lips were horribly cracked in one corner, a dried trickle of blood from the tear curving beneath his chin.

"Levon…" _What are you going to ask him Owen?_ His mind asked, as his trouble blue eyes kept hold of the dark brown ones, rimmed with long black lashes. _Where are your parents?_ _Where do you live? What are you doing out here, alone? _He already knew the answers, and he didn't want to have to know them. Jeff asked for him, kneeling too, hoping to soften his so-scary image. His golden curls fell into his face, a couple of errant strands toppling over his brow to get in the way of the bright eyes that mirrored the angst in Owen's.

"Don't ya got some place ta go? The streets ain't no place for a little boy, you're gonna get hurt or…" Jeff left his sentence hanging, not wanting to let the words out of his mouth that could dare finish it. The boy shook his head.

"Me an' this ol' man name Jake use'a stay together but…" The boys eyes dropped, and he slipped his hands out of Owen's, toying with the frayed, dirty, end of the cloth wound round his one hand. "Well, he was ol' and we ain't together no more." He added quietly, keeping his eyes on his hands. "They gotsa shelter we use'a stay at sometime but there was too much people waitin' in the line an' I guess they got fill up 'cos they dinnit let everybody in. No more room lef' I guess."

Jeff swallowed hard, a sick feeling swishing at the bottom of his stomach at the boys words. Before Jeff could think of any of his own, Owen's words were breaking the wash of silence that had overtaken them, huddled there in the trash-strewn alley. The logical thing to do, would be to take the boy to the police. However, it was late in the evening and instead of being taken to some place proper for children at this hour, the boy would probably have to spend his night at the police station, or in a juvenile, until morning. He couldn't be any older than seven, and the thought of the boy having to spend a lonely night in either of those places, awaiting his fate with fear, was not something that Owen found very appealing. There was, however, an alternative.

"Well, we have room for ya, Levon. Whaddya say come stay with us for the night? In the morning we'll take you to some nice people who'll make sure ya don't have to be out here in these streets anymore, ok?" Owen smiled at the boy. Levon slowly returned the smile, with a wary upturn of his lips, but as Owen's grin widened into one that looked slightly goofy—but as genuine as it could be—Levon laughed. He flung himself up from his crouch against the bricks, and wrapped his arms around Owen's neck. The sudden happiness radiating from the boy, and the cold little arms clinging to him in a hug, made Owen's eyes prickle up. When he glanced at Jeff, he saw that his own blue eyes were not the only ones getting a bit misty.

"Come on Levon!" Jeff stood up, and patted the boys back, as Owen stood with the boy still in his arms. Levon didn't seem too interested in untangling himself, or disengaging from his perch, anytime soon. "We'll get ya fed an' cleaned up an' warmed up. Make ya a new man!"

The three of them made their way back to their hotel room, boots crunching over the salted sidewalks, and sloshing in dirtied snow. Flakes began to twirl and dance in the nippy air, the sun began to sink lower against the paper-white winter sky, and exchange its light for the yellowy glow of streetlamps, and the fluttering of colorful strands wound around naked tree branches and hung on buildings and storefronts. Owen carried the boy, and Jeff carried the teddy bear, and all four of them stopped along their way to take seats in an emptied booth in a corner diner. The two of them had already eaten, but there was no telling when Levon had last had a bite—or whether or not it was scavenged from a dumpster or garbage bin—so Jeff read the menu to him as the boys eyes glittered brightly at the choices.

A big plate mounded with golden fries, and a burger that was too big to fit into Levon's hands, complete with extra ketchup—was placed in front of Levon by a tired looking waitress. He wasted no time digging in, grabbing a French fry and drowning it in ketchup before stuffing it into his mouth. Owen and Jeff watched him with small smiles as the sipped their mugs of cocoa. The burger and fries were quickly disappeared, leaving little evidence of their prior existence. A bit of melted cheese was the only finger print remaining. A smudge of ketchup on Levon's chin was the last tattletale, and Jeff wiped it away with a paper napkin. Their waitress returned, informing them of that days pie selection, and not being one to refuse a good slice of pie, Jeff insisted on it. The three finished their pie over silly conversation, and giggles. When they were finished, Jeff and Owen split the bill, leaving generous tips tucked under the napkin holder. Owen took his hat off, complete with ear flaps and plaid (Jeff declared it to be worse than the dreaded fanny pack) and slipped it onto Levon's head. Jeff donated his favorite scarf, and wrapped it around and around the little boy until his giggles were muffled beneath the knitted warmth, and his dark eyes were the only things visible.

"I don't know if I can lift you up after that big ol' hamburger!" Owen joked, as he faux-struggled to hoist Levon back into his arms. The boy's laughter was musical, a beautiful, cheerful sound. "Not to mention, with that big ol' hat on your head!" Levon's eyes scrunched closed with his laughter, as Owen finally lifted him up, high over his head and perched the boy on his strong shoulders.

"How's the weather up there, ya'll?" Jeff asked as they walked once more down the snow sidewalk. He tilted his head up at the boy, his legs dangled over Owen's chest, and his small hands rested atop the blond mop of Owen's hair. "Ya'll are tall Levon!"

"We're Godzilla!" Owen exclaimed, and he changed his walk to a lumber, complete with growls and rawrs, which were soon mimicked by boy behind the scarf and hat. "Run Jeff, we're gonna getcha! We're gonna stomp through the city!"

"Oh gawd, ya'll are so scary!" Jeff cowered, holding the Teddy tightly as if it was a grand protector.

Jeff and Godzilla soon made their debut into room 311, where the warmth of their rented room greeted them with welcoming arms. Jeff shut the door against the cold and snow, as Owen stood Levon to his feet, dismantling the pretend movie icon, into just a silly guy and happy kid.

After the boy was cleaned up, and dawning one of Jeff's t-shirts (the bottom of it nearly touched his feet) the three of them curled up on the bed, Jeff with his guitar cozy in his lap. Levon held onto the Teddy Bear, once meant for Athena, but now gifted to him by Owen. He petted the soft white fuzz and hugged it, and curled up into Owen as Jeff began to strum, giving the instrument a soft voice. He tipped his head to watch his fingers make their positions on the fretted neck, his long curls falling into his face and the tips whispering against the strings. He began to hum lowly, the tune of a Christmas hymn. There was a feeling of calm, and deep sort of joy that makes the heart glad for simple things, that makes the world for a few stopped moments, seem right and well. Jeff's humming became words, laced with the shy kiss of southern inflection.

_Away in a manger, no crib for a bed…_

The sweet song made one consider, if just briefly, the child that Christian's deemed the ultimate gift to the world. Owen was of the opinion that all children were such precious gifts, and around a delicate time of year when he began to miss his own son and family the most, he felt comforted. Jeff's voice was perhaps common under any other circumstance, but it now seemed like that of an angel as it slipped easily into a new song. The homeless boy next to him was fed, smelling of hotel shampoo, and drifting to sleep with a smile on his face, and Owen was glad that they had found each other. He looked up from Levon's glowing face, to Jeff's. _I'm glad we _all _found each other._

Morning found Owen waking to that familiar southern voice, and he rubbed at his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. Jeff was looking into the bathroom, calling the boys name with some alarm in his voice. Owen looked around, noting that the boy seemed to be gone.

"What happened? Where'd he go?"

Jeff sat down on the edge of the bed, seeming perplexed.

"Ah don't know, Owen. He was gone when ah woke up. Ah went down to the breakfast an' asked some a' the people down there if they'd seen him—asked the guy at the front desk. Nobody saw a little boy like Levon. Seems he just up and vanished." Jeff flicked his eyes back towards Owen, and then over to the nightstand. The white Teddy Bear sat upon it. With a sigh, Jeff reached for it. Beneath it was slip of paper with two words scrawled onto it in big, unsure letters. The squiggly lines and painstakingly formed words read simply: Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

_Includes: Shawn Michaels, HHH, Raven, Sandman, Chyna._

**Untitled-1997**

A figure sat slumped at the hotel bar, a cascade of dark blond hair down his back. His hands loosely cupped an empty shot glass and he was looking down at the trace of liquid left rimming the bottom. He didn't usually drink the hard stuff unless he was at a severe low point, and the nearer it came to the holidays, the lower he felt himself sinking. November still weighed heavily upon his mind, so he tried to keep it occupied in any way possible which was leading to and endless stream of self abuse.

Hunter had taken the pills away from him, and was now his own personal pharmacy giving them too him only when Hunter knew he _really_ needed them and always in the proper dosage. It was easy to get more from someone else, he wasn't the only man in the company taking them or abusing them, though he may have been guilty of being one of the worst offenders. His willpower to put off such things was pretty much nonexistent these days, but Hunter wasn't blind and he knew what Shawn was doing behind his back. He must have issued some sort of threat because soon enough Shawn could find no one willing to give him what he needed, no matter how much he threw himself at them, offering the standard sacrifice of his body as payment.

The pool of men who wanted to deal with him on any sort of level, sexual or otherwise, had decreased since November. It wasn't as if he'd been very popular with any of them anyway, as anything more than something to fuck, but now there wasn't even that. It seemed no one wanted him and it was eating him alive. He could deal with them not liking him because of his attitude and so-called tantrums, but not wanting his body was something he couldn't handle, because that shot everything down. His head was always against him, refraining in an inner echo how worthless he was and now there was an overwhelming proof of that.

His thoughts sometimes turned to one of the lowest points in his life; Birmingham. It was a time when he'd often contemplated the end of everything. After he'd pulled himself out of that pit he had told himself he would never go back there, but here we was playing precariously on the edge of another Birmingham, although he was sure he didn't really have the guts to do it. He knew he couldn't, because there were at least two men who still believed in him. They saw something of value in him but when Shawn studied his face in the mirror, he couldn't see what they saw. Vince and Hunter had to be fools, but they were the only people left in his life who cared. Others who had once cared for him had abandoned him. He could list many.

The approach of Christmas was only making his life worse because he was reminded of the past and the people in it who were no longer in his present. His laundry list through time led him up to the most recent disappearance from his life, and the twisted barb of emotions that spawned from it were so many that they couldn't be named. In November he had realized he was going to be abandoned again, this time by a man he loved more than any of the others, despite the chaos and strain of their love, and he had made a choice to embrace an opportunity which presented itself. This time the knife wasn't going to be plunged into his back, this time he held the weapon of betrayal in his hand, and the name carved into the poisoned blade was the name of a city which would always carry the deepest wound of their love.

But there were more than wounds to be remembered, and at times those were the things that hurt the most. There were times they'd spent together that Shawn would never forget and maybe one day he'd be able to treasure them again as deeply as he had treasured them each in their beautiful moments, but not now. Now they still stung too much.

Shawn felt another presence near him, but he didn't feel like looking to see who it was. It was probably just a trick of his mind, conjuring some ghost of Christmas Past that he didn't want to see anymore.

"It's empty. You want another one?"

The voice caught him off guard, and then he did look to its owner. Sitting on the stool next to him was Scott Levy, his face partially hidden by a kinky mess of curls. Shawn turned the glass tumbler in his hands, flitting his eyes back to it and licking his lips.

"Maybe somethin' a little stronger." He said quietly, and caught Raven's eyes again. They both knew what he meant, and Raven's lips quirked into a small smile.

"I figured as much." Raven answered. He reached for the shot glass and swirled his finger around the bottom, the last drops wetting his fingertip. Shawn grasped Raven's hand and brought it to his mouth. He licked the taste of the alcohol away, and then sucked the whole finger into his mouth and gave it a good demonstration of what he could do in return for 'something stronger'.

"Impressive." Raven complimented as he slid the finger out of Shawn's mouth with a delicious wet sound. He motioned for Shawn to come closer, and after he'd moved off of his barstool Raven pulled him into his lap, amused as Shawn wiggled around a little, pretending that he was only trying to get comfortable in his new seat even though they both knew what was going on. "What are you willing to do, Shawn?"

Raven reached into a pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out two cuffs, each with a metal ring on them. He dangled them and the rings clacked together softly like the tinkling of silver bells. Shawn studied the leather cuffs, his blue eyes watching the light against the metal for a moment. He offered his wrists, and they were secured. Raven reached into his other pocket, this time producing a collar. Shawn tilted his chin up and Raven ran his fingers over the smooth column of Shawn's throat, dragging his black painted nails lightly. He fastened the collar at the back of Shawn's neck, the backs of his hands tickled by Shawn's hair. The leather looked good against Shawn's skin. Raven gave the ring a firm tug.

"Let's go."

Raven led Shawn away from the hotel bar, and they were soon at a room. Raven opened the door and tugged Shawn inside after him. His partner rose from the bed with a beer in one hand and a devious sneer hung on his face. The nightstand and floor was littered with empty cans which Jim stepped over as he moved closer to get a better look at the pretty Raven had brought him. His grin widened and he took a gulp of his beer. He moved even closer, his face nearly touching Shawn's, his breath puffing against Shawn's lips. Jim's flashing eyes turned to Raven.

"What's this for…an early Christmas gift?"

Raven threaded some of Shawn's hair through his fingers, letting the soft locks slide gently through them.

"I don't do Christmas, but I suppose you could think of it like that." Raven shrugged. "If you're not interested, I'll just keep it for myself." He wove his fingers into Shawn's golden mane again, and this time pulled, getting a startled little sound of indrawn breath from Shawn. Shawn's heartbeat was picking up, hammering out a faster pace. The two men were making him uncomfortable, the way they spoke of him as an object rather than a person at all. The look in Jim's eyes made Shawn shiver, and not out of desire.

"Nah…I like it. It's pretty, real pretty. Why don't we both play with it."

When they were done with him Raven uncuffed him and Jim shooed him off of the bed. Shawn backed away, his foot caught on a beer can and he stumbled back into the littered nightstand, knocking more cans onto the floor along with the clock which read 4:14am. The tears began to fall and blur the numbers away. His hand went to his mouth to try and keep back the pathetic sob that welled up in his throat as he trembled from the way they had 'played' with him and from the need of what Raven held in his hand. Shawn tripped over more cans as he moved around and tried to find his clothes. He went to his knees to retrieve his torn underwear, and looked down at the marks and bruises on his thighs. He touched the marks lightly and his fingertips smeared the falling tears over the battered skin.

"Shawn?"

He looked up through the mess of his tangled hair and tears. Raven was standing over him and Shawn held out his quivering hands for his payment. Raven opened the bottle and dumped a few pills into Shawn's hands.

"I suppose I could just give you the bottle. After all, it is the season of giving." Raven said, recapping it. "But as I said earlier, I don't do Christmas." He smirked, giving the bottle of pills a little shake. "If you need more of these—and we both know you will—then you come back and play with us."

Jim popped the tab of a beer, and handed it to Shawn.

Shawn looked down at the few pills in his hand, his other circled around the cool can. His tears fell onto his palm and when he popped the tiny pills into his mouth he could taste the salty tang of his shame tainted onto the drug. He chewed them so they'd take quicker effect, and then gulped some of the beer to wash it all away, even though it could never wash anything away. He was sure by this point in time he was too dirty to ever be made clean again. There wasn't anything strong enough to take all the grime away; no pill, no drink, no soap and water, no magic words, nothing.

Shawn sobbed as he wobbled down the hallway, weaving towards one wall and then the next. He brought the can to his lips and drank again, stumbling over his boots. He wasn't even sure where he was going, or where he was anymore. The combination of all the things he'd put into his body had him royally fucked but the more he wandered around the less he cried. Everything was beginning to become numb, just they way he liked it. At some point he found himself in front of an elevator, although his mind couldn't place that it _was_ an elevator. All he knew was that he was looking into some shiny surface, watching things reflect and waver on it, and that he felt pretty good right now. The pain was finally shut out.

The doors opened.

"Shawn!"

She caught him as he toppled over, his face planting onto her chest.

"Shawn, Hunter's been looking all over-" She stopped her sentence when she saw that it would do no good to continue talking to Shawn in the state he was in. With a sigh Joanie hoisted him into her arms and stepped back into the elevator.

The car seemed to make a slow ascent as she held Shawn, and looked into his dulled eyes. His hair was stuck to his face by a film of sweat, faint red markings were stamped against his skin, on his neck purpling bite marks and scratches, and bruising from what she assumed had been a collar. His breath came out smelling of strong alcohol, but she knew that wasn't the only thing he'd ingested. He was too fucked up to have only been drinking, and her heart thumped a little harder in her chest as the moments in the elevator seemed to tick by slower and slower. She and Hunter were both afraid that if they couldn't help Shawn get control over this, that he wasn't going to come back one day. She gulped away the thick lump that clogged her throat at that thought and shoved her way out of the elevator as soon as the doors began to slide open. She jogged down the hall to Hunter's room and pushed the door open with a big black boot.

"Hunt!"

He was pacing but he stopped when Joanie's voice hit him and he turned on his heel. His heart sank immediately, although he had already known that if they found Shawn tonight at all, that he'd be in no proper state.

"Oh god…" Hunter hurried towards her and opened his arms, and she gave Shawn over to him. Joanie pushed her black hair away from her face.

"Make him throw up, Hunter. Get some of that shit out of him…that's all I've been thinking right now and if that doesn't help then…we'll need to get him to a hospital." She touched Shawn's face and shook her head, afraid for him. "Oh Shawn, sweetie."

"Okay." Hunter carried Shawn into the bathroom and after getting situated near the toilet as best as he could, he began pushing his finger into Shawn's mouth and throat. Joanie stood nervously by with a wet cloth in her hand. "Come on Shawn…" Hunter coaxed, shoving more of his hand into Shawn's mouth and pressing his fingers into the sensitive flesh at the back of his throat.

Shawn choked and the hot chunky mess covered himself and Hunter's hand. Shawn groped forward blearily and Hunter helped his hands find the toilet bowl and he retched again. A couple more dry heaves and it was over. Shawn collapsed back against Hunter's chest, his face smeared, his hair clotted, his shirt covered and sticking heavily too him with the strong smelling mess. Joanie's wash cloth wasn't going to help much, but she sat down with them anyway and wiped Shawn's face. His eyes were partially closed, leaking tears from beneath the long lashes. Hunter was fiddling with the buttons on Shawn's shirt, the smaller mans mess dripping down his hand and arm. In annoyance he just tore the shirt, and handed it to Joanie who dumped it and the dirtied cloth into the sink.

It was now that Hunter had finally noticed the marks on Shawn's body. When Joanie turned back to them, Shawn cradled in Hunter's arms on the soiled bathroom floor, Hunter was running his fingers gently over one of Shawn's nipples. Both were swollen and smudged with angry looking bruises. His chest and belly bore scratches and bite barks. Hunter's hand trembled as his anger at whoever had abused Shawn in such a way welled up, but he kept it leashed for now.

"Joanie, hold him up so I can get his pants off." Hunter said, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

They got Shawn up. He was mumbling something neither of them could understand, his head still heavily clouded. Joanie supported him as Hunter finished stripping him, and as more and more of Shawn's body was bared, Hunter's eyes flashed darker and darker. He had a dangerous look in them, and Joanie was sure if she could see her own eyes, they'd mirror a similar response.

"Fuck—Shawn…fuck…what'd they do to you, baby?" Hunter's face worked as he tried not to cry, but a couple of tears slipped anyway. He was so enraged he could barely think clearly, but for Shawn's sake he needed to so he forced his mind to focus on what needed to be done, and not finding and murdering any offenders. Shawn's bottom marked with what could only be welts from the bite of a belt. The marks crisscrossed the delicate flesh of Shawn's ass like disgusting tattoos. His thighs were marked too, and Hunter couldn't help but feel the massive boulders of guilt weighing down on his shoulders, because he told himself that he should have been guarding Shawn more closely, and this never would have happened.

Hunter helped Shawn into the shower and turned it on to a cool temperature, in hopes of clearing Shawn's head a bit more. He grabbed the hotel soap and began washing Shawn, being as gentle as he could. Joanie bagged up the messy clothes and cleaned up the bathroom. From the shower Shawn began to sob pitifully, and Joanie's own tears dripped as she worked about tidying things up. When Hunter was done bathing Shawn, Joanie was waiting with a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. She and Hunter helped Shawn into them. Joanie sniffled and wrapped her strong arms around Shawn. He was shivering from the cold shower, and he felt so small in her arms. He was still crying, but his sobs had died down. She kissed Shawn's cheek, and then took a step back.

"Hunter, I'm gonna go now." She sniffled, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

"Alright. Thanks, Joanie."

"Don't mention it." She forced a small smile, and left the two of them.

Hunter carried Shawn out of the bathroom and to the bed. Shawn's toes curled into the soft sheets but his arms wouldn't let go of Hunter's neck. Hunter lay down next to him and for the longest time they just stayed close and quiet. Hunter was all too aware that he could have been holding a corpse right now, and his own tears began to fall. His throat was constricted with a thick lump, keeping him from telling Shawn words that had been rejected before. They'd been rejected because Shawn had loved someone else, and after that, rejected because Shawn no longer trusted those three words, no matter whose mouth they came out of or how sincere they really were. Hunter's love for Shawn should have been apparent enough without the use of words, it was present in everything he did for the other man, but too many things were blinding Shawn to that love and right now, something as selfish as Hunter's own heart could not be taken into consideration. His main focus since Bret was out of the picture was getting Shawn clean. That was what mattered the most, saving Shawn from the demons that threatened to tear him away from it all.

Hunter wrapped his arms around Shawn, always touched at how the smaller man seemed to fit into them so perfectly. It was as if Hunter's arms were not made pump iron, take down a worthy opponent, or even carry a sack of groceries. His arms were made to hold Shawn Michaels. Shawn rested his head against Hunter's chest, just sort of letting his head roll as if it were too heavy to really hold up by himself. It was a weary movement. Hunter stroked his hair.

"Shawn, I'm takin' you home with me for the holidays." He was met with a small nod of acknowledgment, and lashes slowly closing over tired eyes. The blue of Shawn's eyes was usually vibrant and full of life but lately they'd seemed to carry the wear of a pair of threadbare blue jeans. Hunter was glad Shawn hadn't put up any sort of argument about the offer, and he was sure they both knew that Shawn had no business going home to his family in such a state. He had even less business staying alone, which was Hunter's biggest fear. There were many people who saw Hunter as overbearing and jealous when it came to Shawn. The last accusation he was plenty guilty of, but the other was only a tag hung on him by people who didn't know Shawn as well as he did. He'd often been told to 'let Shawn make his own decisions' but Shawn wasn't often capable of choosing what was best for him, and so Hunter stepped in and did it himself. He wanted to protect Shawn, not smother him, and although Shawn had his moments of tantrum over all of it, he knew that Hunter's protection was really what he needed.

The tree was in the window, wearing a couple strings of silver garland and blinking lights. It was a bit sparse, but it was a mans tree and lacked the sparkly grandeur that the touch of a woman or Ric Flair might add to it. Shawn had informed him that they needed to buy those metallic globe-shaped ornaments, and a star for the top. Outside a light snow was falling, the flakes lazily drifting on the air, in no hurry to go nowhere. The t.v. was on a marathon of classic Christmas flicks, but the sound was turned down low. Shawn was curled up next to him in a puffy robe and two sweaters. Hunter teased him and with a wink told him that there were better ways to keep warm that involved less clothing. Shawn nudged him with a small grin, and said that he'd have to have some more hot cocoa first. He sipped at the mug he was already drinking, the warmth of the liquid heating the ceramic of the cup and pleasantly toasting the palms of his hands and pads of his fingers.

Shawn leaned forward and sat the cup down on the coffee table. He tucked his feet—wrapped in at least three layers of socks—underneath him because they were cold, and turned to watch Hunter. He reached out and caressed Hunter's cheek, and the younger man smiled fondly back at him.

"Hunter…thank you. Thank you for helpin' me get through the holidays, for helpin' me get through everything. I still have a long way to go but I do wanna try harder. You're so good to me, Hunt, even though I'm no good to you or myself. I don't know what I did to deserve it, and I just hope…I hope that you'll stand by me for a long time. That's all I've ever really wanted, was for someone to stay." Shawn sniffled a little. "I've really come to think that maybe I'm not worth staying for. Hunt, don't scowl at me. I'm gonna work on my self esteem too." Shawn's lips quirked up into a small smile, and he brushed away a tear that had started to trickle. "You could start by telling me how pretty I look, imitating Ralphie's brother from 'A Christmas Story' with all these damn clothes on."

Hunter laughed, and a spring of joy welled in his chest. This was a bit of the real Shawn coming back to him. This was the Shawn he wanted to see more of.

"You look gorgeous. You always do."

Shawn leaned in and pressed his lips to Hunter's, and the two shared a sweet kiss that just tasted like Shawn and Hunter, without any tinge of alcohol or tears. Shawn was the one to break the kiss, and he nuzzled at Hunter's neck, thankful to have a friend like him and to not be alone on Christmas. Maybe if he was lucky enough, Christmas could come every day of the year. Maybe if he allowed Hunter to hold the pieces of his broken heart, then he wouldn't have to be lonely on any day of the year. He felt those pieces thump hard in his chest, the thought of handing them over at this point in time was overwhelming. The pieces still hurt too much to be handled, so that would have to wait until a time when it was on the mend. When or if that time would ever come, Shawn couldn't really say.

"What are you thinking?" Hunter asked, linking their hands together.

"I'm thinking we need to buy ornaments for the tree."


	7. Chapter 7

_Includes: Mark Calloway, Glenn Jacobs, Bradshaw, Ron Simmons. Hints of slash, but nothing explicit. _

**Try The Chimney-1999**

John studied the three faces around him, trying to pick up on any sort of hint, the slightest twitch, glitch, or itch of emotion that might give away someone attempting a bluff. Ron stared back at him with a chocolate gaze that seemed as defiant as a strong willed child disobeying his mother. John clenched his cigar between his teeth and the smoke curled lazily around his head, wafted up towards the ceiling, and perfumed the room with its unique aroma. Ron glanced down at his cards, then tilted his can of suds to his lips and took a long swallow. John's eyes then turned to Glenn. His long auburn curls were pulled away from his face, but like Ron's, his face didn't give too much away. There was a hint of a smirk touching the big mans curvy lips but not quite blooming. John could sense the amusement there, and he was more sure than not that the biggest reasons they insisted on these poker nights was just to see the steam fire out of his ears by the end of the night.

Bradshaw took his poker seriously. He was known for placing high wagers and often losing them, something that was always sure to send the raven haired Texan into a tornado of obscenities. His brow began to pull downward in annoyance and he looked from Glenn to the third man. Mark held his cards fanned in one hand, and a can of beer in the other. He was propped back lazily in his chair, a heavy booted foot propped onto the table—and Bradshaw wanted to constantly swat at that booted foot and growl at Mark to knock it off. It wasn't even John's damn table, it was some table in a hotel that no one would care about, but it bugged him none the less that Mark was leisurely resting his foot atop it. What was even worse, was that Mark _knew_ it grated on Bradshaw's nerves and that was probably Mark's soul purpose of doing such a thing.

Mark's face gave even less away than the other two men. When Mark played poker he slipped into a mild form of his ring presence, making his face into a void, untelling, stone. At their last game John had ended it by slamming his cards onto the table so hard his hand had been swollen and bruised the next day. He'd stabbed his finger into Mark's unemotional façade and demand in a thick, enraged, Texan drawl that The Undertaker never set foot into one of their poker nights _ever_ again. Mark was invited, Taker was not, and "If that's a fuckin' problem then the gah-damn Undertaker can reap mah wide ass for all Ah fuckin' care!" John had spat, in a fury that had crossed the line from inducing his friends with a bit of guilt for intentionally fanning the flames, to infusing them with gut busting laughter. John was certain he'd never seen any of them laugh so hard, and he'd left them there in _his_ very room laughing and squawking like a bunch of drunk women, and he'd camped out in the hotel lobby for the night. It was quite a feat for a man his size. The couch had been a poor accommodation for his large frame and he woke the next morning with little sleep, a bitching back, and a case of the grumpies that made everyone steer clear with no more than a glare.

Tonight seemed to be heading the same way, and sometimes he wondered why he bothered playing with them. Maybe some part of him, a small part, enjoyed the dramatics of the whole thing, but there was _no_ part of him that enjoyed losing his hard earned cash to those three deceivers night after night. He plucked the cigar from his lips and blew a stream of smoke at Mark. The man didn't even blink.

"Are ya gonna play or yer gonna stare at our faces all night long?" Mark asked, watching John's brow and lips pull downward once more.

"Yeah, come on John…I've seen more action on CSPAN." Glenn chimed in, glancing down at his cards.

"Ah'm tired 'a losin' mah money to you god damn ass holes!" John grumbled. He wasn't at the exploding level of pissed off—the three men could tell by the touch of his drawl to his words. When 'god damn' turned into 'gah-damn' then you knew the shit was gonna fly.

"The let's not play fer money." Mark took his foot down from the table, leaned forward, and plucked at the tab on his beer.

"What're we gonna play for? I happen to like scoopin' up John's cash." Ron grinned over at his best friend, who was still scowling, gnawing on the nub of his proclaimed 'fragrant' cigar. Ron thought the fuckers stunk, plain and simple, but John insisted they were the best money could buy and to insinuate they were somehow less than the gold standard of cigars, was preposterous and intolerable.

"Our clothes." Glenn grinned, slouching comfortably in his chair.

John plucked his cigar from his lips and leaned over the table, looking at each man as if he hadn't heard one of them correctly.

"What're ya'll talkin' about here, strip poker?"

"Oh come on John, you know you wanna see my sexy black body." Ron flashed John a shy smile and gave him a wink.

"That ain't all." Mark added, and he pulled a red fuzzy hat from the inside of his leather jacket. He tossed it onto the middle of the table where a crumple of bills still lay from their betting. "The loser's gotta put this on, then walk up and down the hallway for five minutes shouting Merry Christmas!"

John snatched the hat from the table, and waggled it in the general direction of Mark, the white ball at the end bobbing.

"This is ridiculous, ridiculous!" He hung his cigar back in his mouth and spoke around it. "Chris'mas is nothin' more than a gah-damn racket!"

"Oh no, here we go." Ron reached into the cooler near Mark's chair, and fished out another beer for the occasion.

"Y'all know what Chris'mas s'all about?" John continued on. "Money. That's plain an' simple what Chris'mas s'all about. People that don't have it go out and spend more of it ta make the rich man richer, and what do the poor workin' man saps have to show for it in the end? Nothin' but their kids smiling on Christmas morning-"

"Oh wouldn't THAT be horrible!" Glenn wailed, dramatically pressing his hand to his forehead.

"Ya'll shut up and lemme finish—how long d'ya think those prized smiles last, huh? Well, jus' as long as it takes ta rip some ugly wrappin' paper off a' those lovely gifts. Then what happens? The kids tear up the toys or jus' plain get bored with 'em about…oh…say an hour later." John grumbled.

"Stop yer stallin' and hollerin' Ebenezer." Mark sifted through the melting ice in the cooler as well, and came up with his own second draft. "Now…" There was a snap-hiss as Mark popped the cans tab. "About this game, are ya in or out?"

"Fine, Ah'm in." John dropped the Santa hat back into the middle of the table. "But Ah can guaran-gah-damn-tee ya'll that it ain't gonna be mah ass stompin' up and down the hallway like some merry little nudist!"

Near the middle of the game, John—fuming—had raided his suitcase for the bottle of Jack he kept there. He'd needed it to go on any further with the game. The beer had run dry and it was time for something stronger because he was sure he was headed for the oh-so-jolly form of humiliation his comrades had duped him into. The three of them were still in good shape—Glenn and Ron were missing their shirts and shoes, and damn Mark had yet to shed an article.

John's clothing lay in crumples on the floor—his favorite cowboy boots were kicked off beneath the table, his APA t-shirt was gone, the undershirt beneath that lay near it, his belt was hung over the back of his chair, his socks were partnered near the boots, all that was left were his jeans and the boxer shorts beneath. Mark kept the blank Undertaker look plastered to his face, although John was certain it was beginning to turn into the hint of smugness as John became more and more naked. The bottle of Jack sat at John's elbow was more empty than full, and he took another drink from it. He tucked some loose strands of his raven hair behind his ear and with dread that he tried not to show, he plucked his cards up from the table where they'd been dealt and situated them in his hand.

From that hand on John's luck had begun to improve. The game moved on for quite some time and he had yet to get the worst hand of the game. Now it was his turn to look smug, and unlike Mark, he made no attempt to hide it. Ron and Glenn had shed a few more pieces of their clothing, and Mark's leather jacket was even removed, and draped over the back of his chair. Mark seemed unconcerned, as he was still by far the most clothed player left in the game.

Glenn was dealing, flicking the cards over the smooth surface of the table to each player. John and Mark were having some sort of odd stare down. The wheels were clearly turning in John's mind, behind those honey colored eyes. Mark was watching them turned, but felt little need to be concerned over anything John was trying to come up with. Glenn slid them their last cards, and John held his hand out, palm up, in a 'wait' gesture.

"Hold on guys. Ah've gotta proposition for ya'll. It's gettin' late an' this game is draggin' on so let's say we end it with this next hand. The person's got the worst hand this round hasta strip off _everything_ all at once—no more a' this piece by piece shit-and gets to bein' merry down the hallway so we can end this."

Glenn and Ron exchanged unsure glances, but before they could speak, Mark rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

"Yer sure about that, John? Well if yer really sure about it, ya got yerself a deal." Mark reached over the table extending his hand to shake on it.

"Whoa, hey wait a minute!" Glenn blocked Mark's handshake. "You can't make deals like that for all of us!"

"I just did." Mark swatted Glenn's hand out of the way, and John took Mark's and they sealed the deal for all four of them.

"Damn." Ron muttered, and chewed on his lower lip as he picked up his cards and scanned them, hoping for the best.

Glenn did the same, scowling daggers at Mark over his set of cards. Glenn was already honing out some form of retribution should he become the loser and the Nude Santa at Mark's decision.

"Well well well." John chimed, grinning at his cards. "Ah'm gonna stay."

"Fuckin' bluffer." Mark accused, and discarded two of his cards allowing Glenn to deal him two more which he hoped were better. After any cards had been discarded and replaced, it was time for the real test.

"Let's see those babies!" John cheered, sure of himself that he was _not _the loser this time. "Lay 'em down losers!" He hooted as Glenn and Ron placed their cards fanned out onto the table. He had them both beat. "Come on Taker! Ah think ah gotcha beat too. You're gonna rest…in…peace." John mocked, as he drew his thumb across his throat in a slow, slashing, gesture.

Seeming confident enough to smirk, and not retort back to John's mockery, Mark laid his cards down. He crossed his arms over his chest, happily assuming his victory.

"HA!" John slammed his cards down on top of Mark's and stood up so quickly that he knocked his chair over, and the bottle of Jack nearly toppled from the table. "AH FUCKIN' WIN! Ya'll are LOSERS!" John grabbed the Santa hat from the center of the table, and waved it in Mark's face. "But you're the biggest gah-damn loser of 'em all! Off with those clothes Marky-Mark! Ya'll gotta a parade to throw!"

Mark's mouth had fallen open in shock. It was a strange reaction to behold on his face, because nothing much shocked him anymore. He looked at the cards again and again, unconvinced that what he was seeing was true. The more he looked, the more annoyed he became, and John's celebratory dancing and hollering wasn't helping matters at all. Mark looked over to Ron, who was grinning at John's antics and paying little attention to Mark. Glenn was in near hysterical laughter, however, doubled over with stray curls clinging to his face.

"You buncha mother fuckers." Mark growled. He got up and slowly stripped his shirt off, glaring in turn at each man.

"What's this, we get a show?" John continued to jeer. "Shake that ass Mark, give us some HBK!"

"I ain't fuckin' HBK so don't get yer hopes up." He hung his shirt carefully next to his leather jacket, and continued on, taking his time and not liking a bit of what was going on.

"These were _your_ rules, Mark. You hung yerself so don't ya dare glare at me like that!" John held the Santa hat out to a now nude Mark, whose eyes seemed to be channeling the rage and threat of his in ring persona.

"I'm gonna send yer ass to hell, Bradshaw." Mark jammed the hat onto his head, and Glenn nudged him towards the door. "Paws offa me, I'm goin'." Mark snipped at Glenn, and begrudgingly stepped out into the hallway.

The other three men stood at the door, gleefully watching. Ron's hand slipped into the back pocket of John's jeans and gave a brief squeeze. Glenn leaned in the door frame, surveying the back of Mark's nude form.

"Mm…I'm a lucky man." Glenn smirked, as Mark stomped down the hallway.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas!" Mark grumped.

"Louder!" John called. "We can't hear ya!"

"Remember, five minutes!" Glenn put in.

"We're all gonna be dead men come morning." Ron raised an eyebrow, as doors along the hallway began to open up at the commotion—heads began to pop out. Some of the doors slammed closed again, others stayed open and doorways became huddled with amused coworkers.

"Maybe Christmas ain't so bad after all." John reasoned. "Ah feel how those kids must after they've unwrapped some really nice gift. Mark looks real nice without his wrappin' paper on."

"I'd play with that for more than an hour before getting bored." Glenn nodded.

The three stood in the doorway, content to watch Mark's form make it to the end of the hallway, his dark red hair swaying over his shoulders and the curve of his back. Mark turned and headed back, stopping only to send boiling glares to his spectators crowded around doors. Some of them ducked back inside, others decided to risk it and keep watch until the entire show was over.

"I'm not doin' this for five fuckin' minutes!" Mark shouted, as he came nearer.

"Your rules Mark, your rules!" John sang, his growing wide when Mark's expression went even darker. "Shit! Hurry up—he's gonna strangle us!"

John, Ron, and Glenn quickly backed away into John's room and slammed the door, managing to lock it just before Mark could grab the knob and throw it back open.

"You fuckin' assholes!" Mark pounded the door. "Let me in!"

"Hey Mark!" John called, grinning at the other two men in his room. "Try the chimney!"


End file.
